


The Bucket List

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: M/M, cancer fic yay, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two things happen on the same day. He starts with the very first cycle of chemo therapy, and he meets Chris. Both hit him like a wave of thunder, though in two entirely different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bucket List

**Author's Note:**

> I did this as my final project for Literature at school so this is kinda like the family-friendly, shit-its-due-tomorrow-and-i-forgot version. Will probs write the smutty one over the holidays. 
> 
> For Beyoncé because she's cool beans.

**i.**

It starts with a cough. Then two, then three, then it becomes just borderline _ridiculous_ , having to step out of whatever room he’s in when his coughing fits start in public. And they do so very, _very_ often.

Then there’s pain. A sting. A light ache in his chest that slowly progresses into a constant, mind-numbing pain when he coughs.

And If the two weren’t reason enough to bring at least some slight worry to him, then there came the blood. When he coughs. On the sink, on the tissue he keeps with himself, on his hand when the tissue isn’t at reach. And _that_ is enough to make him sick with worry.

He didn’t ask for this. _No one does, I guess,_ he thinks, and it’s true, but yet he never saw it coming. Of everything that could happen to him, _lung cancer_ isn’t something that crossed his mind. He doesn’t smoke, he had tried it once when he was fourteen, merely out of peer pressure, and it was enough for him to decide that he didn’t like it; he does plenty of exercise when his work doesn’t keep him too busy, keeps a balanced diet, doesn’t even have a track of cancer in his family; but yet, as the doctor keeps talking to him in terms too complicated for him to understand, showing an apologetic face that looks much too rehearsed for him to believe, there’s no turning back, no denying it.

Working as a stage actor, it was easy to guess he would find himself surrounded by people who went through cigarettes like he went through cups of coffee. Everyone has their own ways of being ready, of dealing with the pressure so they could be at their very best every time. He wasn’t a fan of the smoke but he didn’t complain, already used to it. And well, if you add to it the fact the he lived in a city as polluted as London, maybe it isn’t so hard to believe that he got sick. But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t a surprise when the biopsy results confirmed it.

He is given some papers to sign, a room assigned and a robe for him to change his clothes. A nurse comes to him, then a doctor, an oncologist, a specialist… people go in and out of his room as they tell him the same things over and over without bothering to explain the terms they use and he doesn’t bother to ask, he understands enough. He has cancer and that’s all he needs to know, all he _wants_ to know, not about the tumour, not about the consequences, not about the disease eating him from the inside out, just that it’s still at a stage where it’s treatable. So, in the end, he sends them away; the doctors, the nurses, everyone. He asks them, politely as he tends to be, if they could please leave him alone for the day.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t even seem to react. He just feels numb, as if the reality of it hasn’t quite gotten to him just yet.

Tom sits there, for minutes or for hours he doesn’t really know, and simply stares at the opposite wall, looking without really seeing, and waits for the sadness, the anger, the emotion that doesn’t really come.

 

**ii.**

Two things happen on the same day. He starts with the very first cycle of chemo therapy, and he meets Chris. Both hit him like a wave of thunder, though in two entirely different ways.

The door opens just as his nurse finishes setting up his cannula, connected to the pump that will slowly but steadily give him his first dose of medicine over the next few hours. She explains it to him just one more time before she steps to the side to dispose of her used materials and give some room for a different nurse to push a bed into the room, a man already lying on it.

The introductions are slightly awkward at first, the nurses linger in the room for a while longer, giving the atmosphere a more clinical feeling than it already has. The nurse sets Chris’ bed by Tom’s side, a curtain by the middle of the room that they could close in case any of them wished for some privacy, or at least as much privacy as such a thin curtain could provide.

“Christopher, this is Thomas.” The nurse says, not looking at either one as she works with the IV’s and monitors.

No one had called him _Thomas_ since he was a boy, and no matter how many times he asks to _please, call me Tom,_ the medical staff around him never seem to understand, making him sigh softly in defeat every time they call him by his full name.

The room assigned to him is a private one, large enough to fit both of the beds comfortably and still leave some space to move with ease. Even when he was capable of paying for the room on his own, when he had been asked, he agreed to share it with someone else, knowing that the hospital could make a good use of every free room it got.

The silence stretches between them for a while longer, before the nurses finally leave with the promise of Tom’s nurse returning soon enough to check on him.

Tom shifts a little on his seat, trying to get used to the feeling of the cannula in his arm.

“So what are you here for?” He hears the man asking, his voice deep and with a thick accent that he recognises as Australian.

“I’m sorry?” He asks, taken aback by the mere _simplicity_ of the question.

“What are you here for?” He repeats, blue eyes fixed on him. “You know, what kind of cancer?”

“Oh.” He mutters, finally catching up. “Lung cancer.”

Chris looks at him for a moment that seems too long, his azure gaze wandering up and down his body, taking everything from his position on the bed to the chemotherapy pump attached to his arm. And really, the intent way in which he keeps watching him should make Tom at least slightly uncomfortable, but, in a way, it doesn’t.

“You’re just starting, aren’t you?” Chris asks, his gaze directed at his face once again. “You don’t look too sick just yet.”

Tom catches a glimpse of his reflection from the bathroom mirror, the door slightly open, and he sees that Chris is right. If it wasn’t for the cannula on his arm and the hospital gown he wears, one wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance that he was sick. “I started treatment today, actually.” He says with a brief gesture to the pump.

“Ah, wait until you start throwing up. That’s when the fun starts.” Chris replies, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and an amused look on his eyes as if they weren’t just on the oncology ward at a hospital.

“Yeah, I’m sure that will be just lovely.” He replies.

Silence stretches between them once again, a much more comfortable kind of silence now that the nurses aren’t fuzzing about in the room. They don’t say anything, merely watching each other, and, for a moment, something happens between them, an exchange to which Tom can’t quite put a name, their gazes meet and the next thing he knows is that they are both laughing, a true kind of laugh, one that makes his smile brighten up and the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly. He’s not even sure why they’re laughing, about everything or about nothing in particular, but for that moment he forgets about everything, about his cancer, about he is bound to lose his job, how he could _die._ Even if just for the shortest of moments, he forgets about it and just laughs along with Chris, guessing that, if he’s going to endure this, he probably did the right choice in sharing a room with someone.

 

**iii.**

As opposed to what Chris tells him, it is most definitely _not_ when the fun starts.

He starts feeling weary as the hours tick by and his first dose of chemotherapy reaches an end, the nurse unplugging the pump from his cannula and leaving him to rest.

It’s not too long before it hits him like a wave. Unexpected and _hard._ He doesn’t see it coming, despite knowing it was bound to happen sooner or later, it doesn’t give him a true warning, merely makes him jerk forward, giving him just enough time to take his hand to his mouth and rush to the bathroom, as quick as he can. He feels the bile rising up his throat, making him empty the contents of his stomach into the sink.

He shuts his eyes tight, his brow scrunching into a frown as he feels it burning his throat and the roof of his mouth. He lets out a pathetic little whimper as he throws up, his hands clutching to the porcelain sink hard enough to make his knuckles turn white.

Tom stays there for a while longer after he has fully emptied whatever was on his stomach, breathing heavily without opening his eyes.

Chris’ voice comes from the room, calling for him, his tone tinted with light worry, but he doesn’t reply, feels too distant to acknowledge. He doesn’t realise Chris has stepped into the bathroom until he hears the water starting in the sink, slowly blinks up to look at the large man by his side, giving him a sympathetic smile that is nothing like the ones the doctors have given him.

He lets out a heavy sigh, bites the inside of his lip and lets Chris deal with the messy sink.

“Here.” Chris tells him, reaching for a bottle of mouth wash that he appreciates to no end as he takes a large gulp from it, letting it clean his mouth for a while before he spits in the sink, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand before murmuring a tired “thanks”.

He moves to lean against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to get his breath back. He looks back up and the first thing he sees is his own face in the mirror. He doesn’t look too sick just yet, merely tired, but he knows that will change soon. His skin will turn paler, his hair will fall. He looks at himself for a moment longer and it is as if something just _clicked_ inside him, as if reality just let its whole weight fall atop him, leaving him at a loss of breath, like there’s no way out.

He has to look away, can’t stand to watch his reflection any longer. All the sadness that he couldn’t find in himself to let out when the diagnosis had first been confirmed finally seems to find a way out.

_He has cancer._

He gulped, trying to keep himself composed while Chris is still in the bathroom beside him, puts all of his acting skills into it but yet, by the look he sees in Chris’ face, he knows that still some sadness can be seen in his own features.

“You were right, it is quite fun.” Tom says in an attempt to liven up the mood, but it seems rather fruitless as his voice breaks at the edges, gulping harshly as he tries to swallow the knot that has just formed in his throat.

There is something in Chris face that he can’t really point out. Pity, compassion, understanding, he does not know, but it is soft and it is kind, and he finds that he doesn’t mind too much when he is pulled closer into an embrace.

It is different, the way Chris treats him. He thought it was odd at first, the way he acts about the whole situation they found themselves in, how he jokes about it and smiles as if he didn’t care, but, as he wraps his arms around him and leans into his warmth, he finally understands.

Ever since his diagnosis, he has seen countless of apologetic smiles, heard even more words of encouragement than he could count, and yet he finds himself unable to believe a single one of them, because they’re not _true_ ¸ they’re kind enough but yet not meant from the heart. Doctors and nurses are familiar enough with the disease, they have treated and lost patients and, at the end of the day, they are used to it. But the way Chris looks at him, he can _see_ it is real, because Chris is just as sick as he is, because maybe he has been in it for longer than Tom has but he _knows_ how it feels, not how a textbook tells it to be, but how it truly is. How it makes him feel sick to the bone, how it makes him feel like his very life is slipping away from his fingertips and he can’t do anything to stop it.

Chris _knows._

So he sighs, a heavy sigh that somehow ends up being more like a whimper, and he leans against the Australian’s broad chest, buries his face in the hospital gown he’s wearing and lets it go, lets his barriers fall as the sadness, the anger that he didn’t feel at first finally comes to him.

He cries. He lets his hands curl into tight fists at his sides, lets out a small groan in anger because it is _not fair,_ because he doesn’t deserve this, because he feels like he’s breaking apart.

He feels the tears finally slip past his lashes and he lets it all go.

**iv.**

It all unravels quickly after that, like a snow ball down a mountainside. If the disease did not really show on him at first, it doesn’t take long for that to change. He can barely get out of bed, his bones feel like they would break, his skin like it would tear, he throws up constantly, seemingly not able to hold down a whole meal for longer than a few moments, and the roof of his mouth feels raw from the bile constantly rising.

The nurse starts closing the thin curtain between Chris’ bed and his own, but he finds that he doesn’t so much as care that Chris sees him in such a state, he even comes to find Chris’ soft looks reassuring, so he opens it again once the nurse gets out. After all, they are both in a similar state. While he is treated with chemotherapy in the hopes of reducing his tumours enough for surgery to become an option, Chris has to endure radiation every couple of days, and though the side effects aren’t as violent as chemo’s, it is still an inconvenience, to say the least.

It is a constant coming and going of nurses and doctors, barely giving them time to rest properly, as if the drugs-induced fatigue wasn’t enough.

He starts losing his hair, chunks of curls falling down with the faintest of touches, leaving large gaps on their wake. He can’t stand looking at himself in the mirror, doesn’t want to see the disease eating him up, the hollow eyes, the pale skin, the hair that only remains in some places. He doesn’t want this. He wants out but there is no exit.

Tom lets Chris shave his head, takes a deep breath as the man starts the machine and very gently starts working at the hair that remains. It feels liberating, in a way, that when he does get a glimpse of his reflection, what he sees is a bald head instead of one that is just barely covered.

They keep each other company, enduring each of their respective treatments with as much strength as they can muster, exchanging soft words and light jokes in the hopes that it will make it easier for each other. Because when your life feels like it’s ending, what else can you do but hold on to that little something that makes you forget, that makes you laugh despite the ache deep in your very bones.

Chris makes it easier for Tom, and Tom makes it easier for Chris. But yet it is _not easy._ It hurts, it makes them want to quit, it makes them wish it was naught but a bad dream. It is not easy and they guess it never will be. But they have to make do. They have to endure it in the hopes that it _will_ become easy.

**v.**

It doesn’t take long for Tom to realise that it is, in fact, not what he wants.

He is young, far too young to be so sick; he has all this life inside him that feels like it is being drawn out with each dose of his medicine, like it is being wasted.

He has thought long and hard about it, considered every possible outcome, played it over and over in his mind. In the end, it all tells him that this is not for him. Not now, at least.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Chris asks him, seated on the edge of his bed, after Tom has told him about it.

He gives a decided nod in return, his fingers fidgeting lightly with the hem of his hospital gown, the fabric thick and tough on his fingertips. “It is.” He agrees and licks his dry lips. “Look at me, Chris. I don’t want this.” He insists. “If I am to die, then so be it, but I do not wish for it to be on an uncomfortable bed surrounded by doctors.”

For a long moment, neither of them speak, and Tom has a feeling that Chris will deny him, that he will tell him he is insane for leaving, but, after some time passes in silence, their eyes meet and he sees Chris giving him the lightest of nods.

“Alright.” He says. “I’ll go with you.”

**vi.**

They are told by the doctors over and over how such decisions will affect them, how they are so very close to finishing that it would be foolish to quit. But Tom knows it is not exactly true, he knows what he wants. All his life he has fought with teeth and nails for what he wishes, strives until he gets it, and right now all he wants is his _life._

So they leave. They sign their respective paperwork, gather their few belongings, and they leave.

Chris doesn’t have much money, he had had to try hard to manage his insurance to cover his treatment, and could have never been able to afford a private room if it weren’t for Tom. But Tom does, while his page as a stage actor wasn’t exceptionally good, he had been saving his whole life with the ever-present dream that he would one day travel the world.

And well, what a better time than this.

**vii.**

They settle on Italy for a start. It is not a place that Chris would pick at the first thought, but when he sees Tom’s face light up as he speaks oh so highly about Venice, he cannot find it in himself to complain.

Their flight leaves them weary, still going through the effects of their treatment, but it is nothing they cannot fix with a good night’s sleep after they book themselves in a hotel, the thought that they wouldn’t have to endure another set of medicines better than any sort of tiredness the plane had left on them.

It is Tom who seems the most excited, the one who wakes barely after the sun has risen, ushering Chris out of bed and into the bathroom, claiming that they had many things to do before the sun was replaced with the moon once again.

The streets of Venice are every bit as enchanting as the photographs and articles paint them out to be, the scent of the waterways always present in the air, with its maze of narrow streets, hundreds of bridges and dozens of canals linking its architecture and art, even a wrong turn would be thrilling in such a city.

“People tend to disregard this place as a tourist cliché.” Tom tells him as they make their way through the busy streets, locals and tourists alike passing by. “But I have always thought it is beautiful.”

Chris is not exactly surprised when Tom insists they _should_ cruise the canals in a gondola, and, cliché or not, Chris finds that he quite enjoys the trip after they convince the boatman –in a very lousy Italian- to give them a fair price.

**viii.**

 

They spend no more than a couple of days in the islands before they leave, with Tom insisting it should be Chris’ turn to choose their destination.

From there it is a short trip to Greece, a helicopter flying them to Santorini, the southernmost isle of the Cyclades, the outcome of a volcanic eruption some 3600 years ago.

Chris once read that it was hardly a matter of surprise that few, if any, good descriptions of Santorini had been written; that the reality was so astonishing that prose and poetry, however winged, would forever be forced to limp behind. Ever since then, the desire to go to the Greek island had stuck with him, though he had thought it was a dream that would remain as such; merely a dream.

It is what he had thought it would be and more, with its villages clinging to red-and-black cliffs, looking out on a nearly enclosed 400-foot-deep lagoon, with water as clear, if not more, as the sky above.

He had always had a soft spot for good food and, as they step into a small tavern, he finds that Tom does as well, the corners of his eyes wrinkling softly with a smile as he takes a bite of his swordfish drizzled in sage-infused olive oil, with a serving of the island’s famous tomatoes.

They chat for what seems like hours with the owner of the place, a friendly man with freckles dotting his face and golden hair that makes him look much younger than he is; they drink the wine he offers them and eat the pie he serves them with _real_ Greek yogurt. They eat and chat as the sun sets above them, staining the sky with beautiful shades of orange and red, and he figures it is small pleasures like this -the way in which they felt at ease, the way in which Tom’s lips curved into a bright smile that not once did he see while they were in the hospital-, the true reason why they left.

To truly live their lives in the way that their disease wasn’t letting them.

**ix.**

They jump from one country to another, one continent to the next, time seeming to pass quickly from that point onwards.

They are still sick, still weak, what with Tom still unable to catch his breath after a while and with Chris’ skin still sensitive and hurt from the radiation, but they are _happy_ in a way that they weren’t before, especially with doctors fuzzing around them and medicine constantly pumping through their veins.

Whatever place they could think of, they visit.

Tom seems to be a walking, talking encyclopaedia of the world, suggesting places that Chris would have never thought about himself, and that never fail to impress him.

Time finds them by the coast of Ecuador, with 14 major and many smaller islands giving shape to the most biologically intact tropical archipelago, the Galapagos Islands still manage to deliver every bit of fantastic and bizarre wildlife that struck the interest of one Charles Darwin so many years ago.

The islands seem to spark an interest for wildlife in them, their usual destinations –old civilizations, large cities, popular towns- shifting into great natural vistas and large ecosystems, fresh air and new animals filling them with a new sense of contentment.

The visit everything from the Iguazu falls -a series of 200 separated waterfalls near where Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina meet-, to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, diving in the only living organic collective visible from Earth’s orbit.

It is the time of their lives, really. Barely a couple of months into their journey and yet they have visited more places than they had in the rest of their lives.  They still feel sick but yet they do not care, their cancer becoming a light bother at the back of their minds rather than the ever-present pain it once was.

**x.**

_Of course_ it was too good to be true.

It doesn’t last them too much, four great months, five even, before things start going downhill.

Trouble finds them in northern Canada, with Tom’s insistence that seeing the aurora borealis was a must-do in their list, and, as always, Chris found himself unable to say no to the man.

It is every bit as amazing as Tom had told Chris it would be, a natural phenomenon that paints the night sky with unearthly, surreal colour, an occurrence of the like neither of them had witnessed before.

The dream only lasts them for so long, though, before the cold weather starts taking its toll on Tom, making his breathing more troubled, his chest feeling tight. “I’m completely fine, Chris.” He claims over and over, dismissing him every time he dares asking if they should stay in the hotel instead where it is warm.

Tom ignores the ache in his chest, the double effort he has to make in order to get some air into his lungs, all in favour of watching the northern lights each and every night of their stay there, and Chris can’t do anything but stay by his side and keep a careful eye on him, ready in case he may need some help.

His coughing fits start soon after that, waking him up even before the crack of dawn on their third night in Canada. He jerks awake and his hand goes up to his mouth out of instinct, trying to cover his coughs as his whole body shivers with the mere force of it.

He manages to slip from the bed, trying to be as silent as he could on his feet as he makes his way to the bathroom, casting a quick glance at the sleeping form of Chris on the second bed to check that he didn’t wake him up before he goes to lock himself in the bathroom, heading to the sink.

It rips the very air out of his lungs, making his back arch like a cat’s as he leans into the sink and struggles for oxygen, the warmth of the room’s heater suddenly not enough to keep the cold out of his body.

What could have been mere minutes somehow feels like hours as he keeps coughing, blood spattering on the marble sink, a crimson contrast to the white of it.

Tom shuts his eyes tight as his coughing finally comes to a stop, trying to get his breath back and feeling the salty taste of blood in his mouth.

He feels it all over again, like he’s crumbling, falling apart with each ticking minute.

He curses under his breath, opening his eyes to watch the blood on the sink, gulping harshly as he lets the water run to wash it down the drain. It takes him a moment of fumbling between the small courtesy bottles of shampoo and soap to find the mouth wash, emptying the contents of it inside his mouth, wanting to erase the taste of blood completely out of his tongue, as if in doing so it would erase the memory as well, the _ache_ he cannot ignore anymore, never mind how much he tries.

 _Too good to be true,_ he thinks with a dull pain in his chest.

 

**xi.**

Tom attempts, without succeeding, to hide it. Tries to pretend that he doesn’t stay awake all night, his coughing fits ruining every attempt at getting some sleep. If he can avoid it, he doesn’t cough in front of Chris, pretends that he doesn’t have to struggle for air and that it doesn’t feel as if his very chest was shrinking.

He doesn’t want to ruin what they have, doesn’t want to go back. But, in the end of the day, Chris notices. It would be hard not to, really.

It sparks a fight between them, with Tom still reluctant to return to the hospital and Chris insisting that continuing traveling would do naught but damage to him.

It goes on for a while, neither of them seeming to give up, hurt settling deep within their bones. They are both weary and upset at the end, but finally, _finally_ Tom agrees to go back, if only so the doctors would give him something for the pain.

He refuses to go back to chemotherapy, he is set on that and it is a decision that doesn’t seem like it would change any time soon, if at all. But Chris is content merely with knowing that at least he’d have his doctors check on him, that they could give him something to make the path easier.

The chemo brings him more pain than whatever he had felt so far, and Chris knows it’s true, he has been there; he knows how it makes you want to simply quit. But if Tom is going to refuse treatment, he wants him to at least have something that will keep the pain at bay.

  

**xii.**

_We can’t catch a break,_ Chris thinks bitterly.

They were quick to return to London, with Tom’s claims that the faster the better so that they could return to their journey as soon as possible.

They admit him for a routine check, but the doctor keeps insisting on running some more tests to see how much his disease had progressed, or else if the chemo had done anything to reduce the tumour, since they had left so abruptly and didn’t give the doctors a change at running the respective tests.

The doctor is kind enough to him and Tom doesn’t find it in himself to complain, so in the end he agrees, with the promise that it would be merely a couple of days and then they would give him a prescription for whatever painkillers and pills he required to keep touring the world.

The results of the x-rays are not what he had expected. Sure, they were _good_ results, but not what he was certain would show in them.

When he had first been diagnosed, the doctors told him surgery would be too complicated, too risky due to the size of the tumours on Tom’s left lung. Chemotherapy was by far his best option, whether for it to shrink the tumour enough for surgery to become a possibility or to wait and hope that it would get completely rid of the cancer.

But now, as the doctor brings the x-rays for them to see, the tumours have been reduced to almost half of their size.

It is a rare occurrence, the doctor says, what with Tom only being on treatment for a relatively short period of time and with him quitting and leaving the hospital, the tumours should be much bigger than what the image shows.

“The cancer could have even spread further into your lungs.” The doctor tells him, explaining him how the cells should have multiplied themselves even more in the time after he had stopped treatment. “It is an opportunity we cannot let go past us, lest it develops once again.”

Tom rarely finds himself at a loss of words, whether for witty comments or smart retorts, but now, as the doctor explains the surgery to him, he finds himself unable to come up with something to say.

Surgery was an option he had ruled out since his decision of stopping his treatment. He had no intentions of getting chemo again and, without it, surgery just wasn’t a possibility.

The sudden need for a decision of how it should proceed finds him at odds with himself. He could get surgery, get admitted into the hospital once more and trust the doctor’s skilled hands to grant him a longer life, but yet it is not without risks; no matter how much the tumours had been reduced, a lobectomy is a complicated surgery, removing an entire section of the lung, and one that could end badly.

Silence stretches between them as the doctor awaits his answer, an expectant look on her face as she hopes Tom would accept the surgery.

A moment passes, two then three, and yet no answer comes from him save from a blank look on his face.

“Could you give us a moment please?” Chris’ voice is what breaks the silence, an apologetic look on his face as he looks at the doctor, watching her nod softly and step out of the room. “You would be insane to just walk away.”

Tom’s blue eyes rise to look up at him, a soft frown creasing his features. “And a fool to believe this will be easy. That it won’t bring me any more pain, or that it would even work.”

He is unsure of himself. All he had wanted was to get some painkillers for him to be able to keep travelling without having to endure great discomfort.

“If I am to die, I rather it not be in a hospital bed.”

Chris lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his face with his hand. “You’re not going to die, Tom, not anytime soon if you would just get the surgery.” He says, the look on his face seeming somewhat pleading, making a knot form in Tom’s throat that he can’t quite swallow. “It will give you many years more than what quitting could offer you.”

“Yet what is the point in living a long life if it is going to be a constant scheduling of doctor appointments and medicine after medicine?” Tom tries to reason, the look on his own face starting to match that on Chris’.

Both of them are stubborn men, striving for what they want, and, right now, what they want are the same thing, yet the paths they choose to travel to get it are two very different ones.

The only thing they both want is to have _more time._ More time to keep travelling, to keep visiting places they have never even dreamt about, do things they never thought would have the chance of doing, more time to be together, for they only have each other now, no family, no friends that would visit them at the hospital, no one else but a stranger they met at a hospital.

All they want is more time. But yet they don’t seem able to come to a conclusion of how such time would be achieved. Chris wants years, decades more, to get _cured_ so that they could live _long_. While Tom only ever wishes for a few months, perhaps a year or two at most if he gets lucky, but to live such time in the way they always dreamt about, he only wants them to live _happy._

They argue again, each one trying to convince the other of the right path to take. _Get the surgery,_ one would say. _Let’s just travel again,_ the other would retort, on and on without seeming to reach a conclusion. It makes Tom’s eyes sting with unshed tears and Chris’ chest tighten with frustration.

It just doesn’t seem to reach an end, not for a long while, until _finally,_ Tom speaks what is on his mind.

“What good will ten, twenty years more do to me if you are not here? If you die, I have nothing!” He tells him, anger and frustration making his tone of voice rise, showing the emotion that he had kept tucked away since their argument began. “If I get treatment and you don’t, you will die, and then what will I have left?”

Tom’s voice, always so calm and composed, rises over the noise of the ceiling fan and of the people outside, and it makes Chris let out a shaky breath, a deep frown furrowing his brow as he looks at him and realisation takes hold of him. “I… Is that it?” He asks, his voice contrastingly low. “Is that why you don’t want it? Because I’m not getting treated as well?”

Tom lowers his gaze, a tired sigh escaping his lips, and he nods. “I would prefer to live nothing but a few months with you, than to live a full life and watch as disease eats you away.” His voice is low once more, now merely above a whisper, fidgeting with his hands as he speaks.

Silence finds them again, making the hospital room seem smaller, the air heavier as they just gaze up at each other, letting their thoughts slowly settle into something they could put into words.

“If I… If I resume my treatment, will you get surgery?” Chris finally asks, the look in his eyes soft, pleading.

It takes a moment for Tom to answer, gulping harshly and looking up at Chris, his eyes bright with tears. He lets out a defeated sigh and finally nods in agreement. “I… Alright.”

 

**xiii.**

The doctor smiles softly as they tell her of their decision, both of them giving their respective paperwork to sign and being admitted soon after, asking for a shared room once more.

The nurses ready Chris to start radiation once more while the doctors run the needed tests on Tom before surgery. He goes through a pulmonary function test, needing to see if his body would be strong enough to endure surgery. He is _barely_ in the range of positive results, but it is just enough for him to be candidate for surgery.

Seconds, minutes, hours tick by and he feels a deep anxiety and nervousness starting to settle deep into his bones, having to remind himself to take deep breaths to calm himself. Nurses and doctors and even interns fuss about him, explaining him how the surgery would proceed, what it consists of, the possible side effects and outcomes, they explain everything he needs to know in an attempt at making him feel secure of the surgery but that ends up doing more harm than good, the thought of all that they would do to him starting to scare him.

“I’m not sure I wish to do this.” He mutters in one of the few moments when the room is free of medical staff, his voice hushed and his gaze up at the ceiling, almost as if he was talking to himself but yet it is only loud enough for Chris to hear.

“We’ve been through this, Tom. This is the best chance we have.” He tells him, his voice feather-soft, reassuring. “Everything will turn out alright.”

Tom gulps, lets out a shaky breath and turns his face to look at Chris. “Do you promise?” He sounds desperate, almost childlike, the look on his face pleading for Chris to tell him that yes, it would all be fine, to make him feel better.

“Yes. I promise.” He tells him, giving him a soft nod of his head as in confirmation.

And it may as well be a lie. He doesn’t know, he cannot _possibly_ know if things will turn out fine. No one could. The surgery could turn out perfectly just as it could turn out horribly wrong. But the thought is too awful for him to bare, a heavy burden on his shoulders, the idea of things going wrong something that he doesn’t even want to consider.

And so what if his promise is an empty one? So what if it may be a lie? Because it’s something that he needs to believe in, something _Tom_ needs, and he is beyond caring if his promise is a lie so long as it brings at least some sense of reassurance to the both of them.

He gives Tom a soft look, trying to be as supportive and reassuring as he can, and he tells himself over and over that it will be alright, that the surgery would be a success, his own treatment would get rid of what was left of his cancer and they could _both_ be cured.

He tells himself that it will be fine, over and over until he can believe it.

**xiv.**

Tom gets readied for surgery on the next morning, the nurses setting everything so he could get taken to the operating room.

The nurses give him soft smiles and reassuring words as they move around him, but he doesn’t find any comfort in them as he does in Chris’ words, only managing to relax a little as he gazes up at the Australian, seeing the soft smile in his face that still shows a hint of worry.

They roll Tom out of the room and through the hospital’s halls that led to the O.R., with Chris following right beside him, his gaze fixed on Tom.

He is only allowed to go so far with them, reaching a set of doors where the nurse tells him he must say goodbye and wait in their room for Tom to be out of surgery. He takes a deep breath, trying to swallow the knot in his throat as he gazes down at Tom and nods softly.

“I… I’ll see you later.” He says, an affirmation.

Tom gulps harshly and forces himself to nod in reply. “Yeah… You will.” He answers.

Chris lets out a soft sigh, ignoring the waiting nurses and doctors around them as he reaches closer to touch Tom’s hand, giving him a soft squeeze, a reassuring touch that is too fleeting for his liking, having to pull away reluctantly as one of the nurses clears her throat and asks him politely to step back so they could go in.

He watches as they push the bed past the doors, stays there until he cannot see Tom any longer, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he goes back to his room, an uneasy feeling in his chest.

 

**xv.**

The funeral is on a Thursday. He does not know any of the people that show up, not that there are many to start with, a couple of distant relatives, six or seven people that used to work with him, some assorted people that he does not know where they come from nor does he feel the need to ask, neither looking too upset to hear about his passing. It brings a deep frustration to Chris’ chest, but he cannot do anything to change it, so he ignores it.

He gets asked how he met Tom, how long had they been friends, if it had been too bad for him. He answers dryly to all their questions, not wishing by any means to engage in small talk or conversation of any kind.

Chris stands there, watching as the funeral goes on and more unknown people arrive, trying to swallow all the emotion he has inside him, threatening to spill any moment now.

He watches the people place a couple of flowers on the coffin, say a few words that seem too practiced, too _dull,_ for him to feel anything other than frustration.

He stands in the back and pretends like he’s not upset. Because they don’t understand, they cannot possibly _fathom_ the extent of loss that has settled in his chest, making him ache more than any medicine, any disease ever could.

Chris only wishes for it to be over, for the people to finally leave so he could be alone.

He feels the cold autumn breeze in his skin, watches the falling leaves of the trees, and watches as the sky changes and the sun starts to retreat from his place above. He thinks, with an ache in his chest, how dull the sky of London seems compared to that of Egypt, of Brazil, of all the places he had visited with Tom.

His muscles start aching as hours pass by and he remains standing there, but he ignores it, it is merely an itch compared to the emotion that settles within him as the last person finally leaves and he is left alone, gazing down at the grave.

It seems surreal, in a way, like a dream. It was always a possibility but somehow, no matter how much he had considered it, it feels nothing like how he had expected it.

He looks down at the gravestone, as equally dull as most of the others in the graveyard, and sighs heavily. This is not what he wanted, not the funeral he had wished Tom would get, and he is certain Tom wouldn’t have wanted it either.

“I’m sorry.” He hears himself muttering, his voice coming out broken at the edges. “I’m sorry.” He repeats, as if saying it would change things.

He had tried to arrange things, to figure out everything so Tom’s funeral would be held abroad, some place where the northern lights could be seen, but that was not his decision to make, and no matter how hard he tried to talk them into it, the few relatives that answered to the hospital’s call decided to hold it right there in the city.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, unsure of what even he is apologising for. Perhaps for not being able to do more to get him a better funeral, perhaps for promising him something that turned out completely wrong, perhaps just because he cannot think of anything else to say. Whatever other words he can come up with seeming too dull, too empty to mutter.

He doesn’t feel the time ticking by, doesn’t notice the sky shifting until the moon is fully settled above him, only a couple of stars visible above the city skyline.

He is all too reluctant to move, to walk away, but he forces himself to do so, taking a deep breath and gulping harshly as he takes a last glimpse of the gravestone sporting Tom’s name and turns around, walking out onto the street without looking behind, lest he finds himself wanting to go back.  


End file.
